


The Beast Within the Burden

by ParadifeLoft



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Curufin is a mess of Feanor issues, Gen, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Nargothrond, Sick Character, aggressively swerves to avoid hurt/comfort, lbr this is more like hurt/hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 09:30:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/822753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParadifeLoft/pseuds/ParadifeLoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod is injured and ill and somewhat delirious, and Curufin comes to visit. This may have been a bad decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beast Within the Burden

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a while ago for a meme prompt on tumblr and only just got around to deciding to post it here. Ah well. My desire to stick all my stuff in one place won out. It can also be read as either gen or shippy depending on your preferences. (For those of you who think authorial intent matters, well. That's why it's listed as Finrod/Curufin, no?)

The metal buckled beneath the impact of the hammer, and Curufin almost immediately cursed under his breath. There was a _dent_ now, marring the once-perfectly convex surface, and oh, of course few would take notice or think it much significance, but it looked to him like a great gouge in the forward face of the plate.

That was how the messenger found him, putting the last few strokes into the metal even as he could feel his mood souring from the way the dent stared up at him.

"My lord - I was to let you know that you are allowed to visit the king now," the man said, closed-in stance making him look quite ill at ease. Something seemed to shudder inside Curufin's ribcage. He thanked the messenger, somewhat dismissively, and began to undo the ties on his work apron. It was _about_ damn time - were not only Findaráto's guardsmen incompetent, that they could not prevent his being taken unawares and shot with a poisoned arrow, but his healers as well, that he was only just now able to see those who would inquire as to his well-being? (But it had only been  a short while, truly, he had to remind himself, and these things did take time, and it had been a terrible poison, the healers had told him.)

He made his way to Finrod's quarters just as soon as he'd seen all his tools put properly away. When he got there, it was Artaresto waiting outside the closed doors, rather than his cousin's usual guards. "What business do _you_ have?" Orodreth asked him, and he either intended to show Curufin a scowl and narrowed eyes or he was vastly in need of his royal uncle's skill at politeness.

"I wish to see my _cousin_ ," Curufin said. A twinge of spring-coiled tension and annoyance leeched a bitter bite into his voice. What did the dullard think he might do in there, finish the job the orcs had started?

Orodreth stared at him like something vaguely distasteful that had ruined some plan he'd made for the day's activities. After several moments, he shifted a minute distance to the side, as though allowing Curufin passage into Finrod's chambers. It was a rather pitiful effort if it had been meant as anything more than a grudging allowance on the basis of acquiescence to what he knew his uncle's desires would have been. Curufin only looked slightly down his nose and smiled a bland smile as he moved past him, giving an appropriate incline of his head for the sake of politeness.

The air in the inner chambers felt dim and stuffy as the advisers on the council he'd had to meet with earlier in the day, though Curufin was reasonably certain that it must have been only his imagination. Findaráto would not allow his health to be tended by anyone incompetent enough to leave him in such a state. He _hoped_.

But Tyelkormo stood beside his bed already, and from the soft mumbling of words he could not understand from this distance, Findaráto was… conscious, at least?

Celegorm even chuckled, briefly, presumably at something Finrod had said, just as Curufin came up to stand beside him. Well, Celegorm laughed easily enough, but he could at least hope that meant something good.

Finrod didn't look much better from when he'd been carried into his bed a two days ago, feverish and near convulsing in pain. His eyes seemed sunken and glassy, his hair limp with sweat; but he was _awake,_ Curufin reiterated. He was at least awake. "Fin," he greeted him, a bare, subdued syllable. A moment, and then a brief hesitation before he laid a hand lightly on his cousin's arm, near his shoulder.

"Uncle," Finrod murmured, with a weak, unhappy flutter of confusion through his wan face.

The quick snapping back of his hand from where it rested on his cousin's arm began even before Curufin understood what was being said. And then it was obvious, and the tips of his fingers seemed to burn.

Findaráto hated his father. "It's _Curufinwë_ ," he countered, a bit sharp, a bit at a loss for words. "I'm not your uncle." Celegorm cocked his head at him, giving him a questioning look.

Finrod's eyes flicked over him, slowly, as though trying to comprehend what he'd just said. "Apologies," he mumbled finally. "I shall remember to not be so familiar."

Curufin watched him, wordless and with a deliberate stillness held in his face and body. But Finrod just looked back at Celegorm, fingers catching at his sleeve. "Tell me another story."

He really should be spending his time at the records and the legal matters that had begun to pile up on his desk. He should be working, and Findaráto seemed in no imminent danger of death. His presence was unneeded here. "Do hurry and get well swiftly, cousin," he pronounced coolly, before turning on his heel and striding out the door. He left Finrod's chambers with nary a proper farewell, to him or to his brother. Orodreth, still at the outer doors, he did not even acknowledge.

Few people were about in the halls. Those that were only managed to prod at his temper for no identifiable reason. He thought of the pair of vambraces he'd ruined in the forge, and then several moments later only came to realise he had begun grinding his teeth upon the press of his fingers into a building knot of soreness in his jaw. Abruptly, Curufin turned, and reversed direction. The tasks awaiting him in his room were more urgent in truth, but the sensation of a sword in his hand sinking into the wood of a practise dummy, he would likely find a better distraction.


End file.
